In celebration of A Taste of You releasing this week, I was going to make cream puffs, or maybe pasta, or maybe (but probably not) braised lamb. Anyway, I was going to make something from the book and share it with you. Instead, I was massively sick for release week. This really spoiled my fun at hitting a couple of Amazon’s best-seller lists. (Although I wasn’t too sick to stop refreshing the book page every 5 seconds to gloat, woozily, over the numbers).
The point is, I was the kind of sick that precluded cooking, if by cooking you mean more than warming up soup and then wondering if I could keep it down.
So, I promise I will make it up to you soon with some cream puffs, or maybe pasta. You can keep dreaming about that lamb.
Instead, I’m going to invite you over to my Pinterest Boards where some other people have already done all the work for me.
And there is a lot more food on my Food Porn board.
And, because I’m feeling a little guilty, here is an exclusive excerpt from A Taste of You. Enjoy!
The fourth course was seared duck breast made, unsurprisingly, with the heritage breed Garrett had found. Garrett’s commentary, detailed before, became a full-out sales pitch. Had Carlo ever heard of an Indian Runner? Much leaner meat than usual for duck. Garrett thought it tasted closer to wild duck than any domestic duck he had ever found before. And the farm? Beautiful. Terroir was so important, didn’t Carlo think? The same breed from somewhere else would be completely different. As soon as he had tasted this one, he knew he had to have it for Ransom.
Garrett continued on about diets, breeding, exercise, the soil conditions of the ground the birds were hopping around on, and more facts about ducks than Carlo knew existed while he cooked and plated.
Carlo let him ramble, happy to see him so excited about something even if it was a duck, but the soil thing finally prodded his manager brain awake. There had never been duck on the menu before.
“Yes, Carlo?” Garrett had started to plate and sounded distracted. Continue reading